


Vellichor

by Arae



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bookshop owner Tomas has a crush, ExoWriMo, M/M, Mysterious Marcus, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Romance, bookshop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 13:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14594091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arae/pseuds/Arae
Summary: From his seat, Tomas has a perfect view of the man’s features, which remind him of the cracked lines of the leather cover of an ancient book: something that lived, that survived but still suffered the damages of time; a cover which each crevice tells a different tale. He wants to run his fingers over every single line, wants to learn those stories through his fingertips.Daydreaming seems to be part of his routine now, and it started when this stranger pushed open the door to Tomas' little book-filled world.





	Vellichor

**Author's Note:**

> A bookshop AU for the April ExoWriMo, though a little late due to my finals! I hope you enjoy it!  
> I would like to thank my friend Joanne for beta-reading this! You're amazing!

**Vellichor**

_(n) the strange wistfulness of used bookshops_

 

After what feels like a lifetime spent between four brick walls with books piled up to the ceiling, Tomas Ortega was brought to the somewhat unsettling conclusion that books – no matter if old or new – don’t have any distinct smell.

Some say books are redolent of paper and ink, old ones emitting a faint dusty and musky scent, while more creative minds compare the smell of books to a sweet essence of vanilla flowers and almond, instead of simply drifting towards a more scientific explanation like the breakdown of the chemicals compounds in the paper.

Tomas, on the other hand, likes to believe the scent of a book is entirely dependent on the person who smells it. For the old man who was holding a copy of a book and staring at it with nostalgia-filled eyes, perhaps the book reminded him of a long-lost childhood, smelling like the cornfields he used to run through as a child, the corn tickling his unblemished hands and bare feet; the scent of the past.

For the nun who walks inside the bookstore with a cross proudly hanging from a black cord around her neck, Tomas wonders if the books smell like small church candles bathed in incense, a mixture of sandalwood and myrrh, burning under the rose-shaped Catherine window that carefully watches upon the church’s visitors; the scent of faith.

Safely hidden behind his cracked wooden counter, Tomas observes his customers and imagines what they must be smelling while holding a particular book; what his books remind them of.

Regrettably, Tomas doesn’t have a lot of customers to occupy his thoughts; barely enough to subsist, actually. But being able to walk every day into such an enchanting place – his safe heaven – and being surrounded by hundred of books is worth the certain lack of money.

He could have become a teacher, but after dropping everything for the illusion of an idyll with a longtime friend, to whom he used to send perfumed love letters like the forbidden lovers he liked to imagine them to be, Tomas had soon been forced to land back on his feet when he had realized this wasn’t going anywhere.

With a small amount of money in his pocket and a desire to honor his love of literature, Tomas had opened a small independent bookshop in the Wicker Park district of Chicago, a place he had quickly grown to consider home. The cafes and quirky shops surrounding him certainly help turn the area into a pleasant one, a place his sister Olivia thoroughly enjoys.

She regularly visits him, more often than not to drop off her son Luis before going to an important meeting, but never without lecturing Tomas about his unkempt hair and stubble. _With this and those reading glasses of yours, you look like the old and boring university teacher you were destined to be._

 _The glasses are to protect my eyes_ , he would reply with an offended look on his face, only half-faked; a vain attempt to defend himself. But it’s only half of the truth. Tomas rather likes the scruffy look it gives him. In addition to protecting his eyes from an intensive reading under the dim lights of the bookshop which highlight the lines from the latest romance novel he has managed to get an early copy of.

Tomas is pulled out of his thoughts – and out of his current paper obsession – when a young woman holding a book in her hands indicates she wants to purchase it by dangling it in front of his nose. The sale is made in silence, except for a few polite words exchanged as the customer leaves. Tomas then turns his head back to the open book on the counter next to him and is ready to plunge back into the captivating story when he hears the doorbell ring. Has the woman forgotten something?

To Tomas’ surprise, it’s not the woman from a minute ago who walks inside. It’s a man – in his late forties or early fifties – and his first thought is that he doesn’t belong here; in a small and cramped bookshop, one where some alleys contain more books than light to illuminate them.

His new customer is different from Tomas’ usual clients, simply from the way he’s dressed. He’s wearing a black leather jacket that seems to come from another decade, and Tomas can almost _smell_ the scent of old and used leather from the place where he’s standing. The jacket is pulled up almost to the stranger’s chin and Tomas wonders if its purpose is to hide the long and lean neck he seems to have, protecting it from the wind.

This is a man who’s lived; his face tells the story of years and years of harshness, and yet there’s a certain gentleness to it that Tomas can’t explain. The book lover that he is yearns to know the tale behind every wrinkle, every little scar he can discern on the man’s skin. The mystery emanating from this stranger only adds to his ruggedly handsome features and to the certain magnetism he gives off.

Tomas’ eyes carefully follow him, unable to break the silent spell that was cast upon him the second this man walked into the bookshop, and he notices that the stranger seems to be looking for something in particular. Eventually, he disappears in an alley; the one about myths and religions, an alley that stays mostly devoid of customers, except for the nun from earlier. Some books have been there for years, and Tomas can’t really blame his customers for their lack of interest; religion hasn’t really been a hot topic during the past decades.

The man reappears a few minutes later with a book in his hands and he must have noticed Tomas was _staring_ , because he’s looking right into his eyes with a grin, and Tomas has to turn his head away, his actions being followed by the embarrassing feeling of having been caught red-handed. He can already feel a blush creep up his neck and _God,_ why did he have to make a fool of himself like this?

He desperately tries to focus back on his book, to forget the humiliation and to just pretend he’s never been staring because _this man isn’t that special anyway_ , but soon a heavy book is dropped on the counter right under his nose, and Tomas swears he saw dust gracefully fly up around the old book — illuminated by the rays of sunshine peeking through the window behind him – before disappearing into thin air.

_The Encyclopedia of Demons and Demonology._

When Tomas lifts his head up, he’s not surprised to find himself face to face with the stranger, but he’s startled by the almost _sacred_ blueness of the eyes that are plunged into his own – and this is coming from someone who doesn’t believe in the man upstairs, and who doesn’t have for habit using words with religious connotations to describe the appearance of the first attractive stranger who walks into his shop. But those eyes, oh, _those are the eyes of an angel_ , Tomas thinks, though he has yet to decide if they belong to a fallen angel or not. This is a man who’s buying a book about _demons_ , after all.

When Tomas comes back to his senses a few bills are being handed over to him, which seem to have been pulled out of the man’s back pocket; money that serves the purpose of buying a one-thousand-page encyclopedia about demonology.

Can’t be hot without being a little odd, Tomas guesses.

“Quite the big book you’re getting,” he says, because despite having a few years of experience in the business, he’s never been the best when it comes to actually start a conversation with a customer.

“Better something complete than incomplete.” The man replies with a grin, and his deep voice alone almost makes Tomas weak in the knees. His accent betrays a childhood in England, so far away from here, so far away from Tomas who thinks, _what are you doing here, thousand of miles away from home? Are you lost, I wonder?_

“Can’t argue with that.” Despite his best attempt at guessing the truth, Tomas has no idea what he’s planning to do with a full encyclopedia about demons. He doesn’t really feel like asking either, mostly for self-preservation purposes.

Instead of asking the question that is burning his lips, he accepts the money handed to him. “You might want to clean the book a little bit, especially if you’re allergic to dust,” he explains, giving his customer the change. “This book’s been here for a while.”

“People aren’t that interested in demons, I presume?”

“Not really,” Tomas shrugs, “I sell more books about history and politics. People seem to fancy reality over myths, nowadays. Which is a shame, if you ask me.”

“Myths.” The man repeats with an amused grin, and Tomas doesn’t quite know what to make of it. He is being made fun of?

Any comment he could have made dies on his lips when the stranger grabs the book that now belongs to him and turns around, holding it under his arm. For a moment, all Tomas can see is the back of the man’s well-worn leather jacket and then, for just a _second_ , he catches a glimpse of his face as the stranger throws him one last indescriptible look before stepping out of the shop; out of Tomas’ world.

When Tomas tries to get sucked back into the story of his book, he finds himself too distracted by his recent encounter to care about the now dull fictional romance.

 

* * *

 

 

Three days later, the stranger is back.

Tomas is all too busy reading behind his counter; his glasses tucked in the collar of his shirt, when the doorbell rings. Lifting his head up out of pure curiosity – something he will deny having done every single time someone walked into the shop during the past three days – he’s actually quite startled at the sight of the man clad in leather, and he looks exactly the same as he did during his first visit.

“I remember you,” Tomas greets him, and it feels unnecessary; of course he remembered, how could he forget about him? “Have you already finished the book you bought the other day? The one about demons, I think?”

Tomas observes the stranger, who doesn’t really feel like a stranger despite his name being an information Tomas doesn’t even possess yet. There’s something familiar about him, like a lingering thought at the back of his mind but just slightly out of reach; something serene like the sensation he gets whenever he looks at an aesthetically pleasing book cover and thinks, _this is nice, I like it_.

Perhaps it’s just the effect this man has on everyone.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” the stranger announces and instead of getting closer to the bookshelves, he approaches the counter and leans against it, dangerously close to Tomas. From his seat, he has a perfect view of the man’s features, which remind him of the cracked lines of the leather cover of an ancient book: something that _lived_ , that survived but still suffered the damages of time; a cover which each crevice tells a different tame; Tomas wants to run his fingers over every single line, wants to learn those stories through his fingertips.

Daydreaming seems to be part of his routine now, and it started when this stranger pushed open the door to Tomas' little book-filled world. 

“I need another book, and I was hoping you could help me.”

Tomas tries to fight the sudden warmth that invades his body against his will, because all his mind can currently think about is, _he’s thought of me, he’s looking for something and he thought I could help him_.

“What is it this time, demons again?” He asks while organizing the numerous books on the counter. Too many, a rational soul would say, but Tomas’ never been rational when it comes to books.

“Sort of. Let’s say, I’m looking for a book about the more effective ways to deal with them.”

This does come as a surprise, but Tomas tries to stay composed. Instead of showing his curiosity, he leans back into his chair and gives the man a teasing smile.

“If you’re talking about the demons in your head, then you were in the wrong section, my friend. The psychology section is over there, right behind you.”

The stranger laughs, and Tomas is glad he didn’t take the joke badly. At least he didn’t blow this; not yet.

“Oh, the demons I’m talking about are not in my head. No one, not even a demon would like to be inside an old thing like me.”

 _I beg to differ_ , Tomas thinks as he stares a little bit too long at the man and his train of thoughts surprises him. He usually does a better job at controlling his libido, or at least he improved at doing so. His libido is the exact reason why he decided, in a moment of weakness, that sleeping with a married woman was a good idea. As it turned out, not so much.

The man is still laughing slightly, and Tomas is just glad he can’t read his thoughts, or he would have a lot of explaining to do. Especially about the fact that when he looks down, when his eyes settle on the man’s scarred yet delicate hands, all he can think about is the way they would feel while caressing his skin for the first time with the same eagerness and passion as those of a reader opening a new and exciting book.

“Then I think I might have just what you need.” He grins, all too aware of how close to each other they are. Breaking this closeness as he stands up and walks around the counter doesn’t quite feel like a loss because in a cramped bookshop like this one, there isn’t anything such as personal space.

As he leads the man back to the alley, Tomas puts his glasses on and soon, he starts fumbling through the books, running his fingers over their spines with the delicateness of a lover and the expertise of a librarian.

“You wouldn’t be the first one to come here after seeing that movie.” He declares, trying not to sound eager to start a new conversation.

“A movie?”

“Yeah, that movie from the 70s? With the exorcists?” He asks absentmindedly as the tip of his finger gently caresses the sides of the books, looking for the one that will help this man, whatever he intends to use the book for.

 _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum,_ no; _The_ _Key of Solomon_ , close but not yet; _The Satanic Bible_ , as a joke maybe, but Tomas isn’t entirely convinced it would amuse his customer. He doesn’t fancy ruining his almost non-existent relationship with this attractive stranger just because of a book about satanism.

“I didn’t know they made a movie about it.”

“Of course they did, I would be surprised if they didn’t. And considering morbid curiosity is very much a thing, it doesn’t surprise me the movie found its audience.” Tomas says before his face breaks into a slight grin. “They say it’s been inspired by a real case, you know.”

The man doesn’t say anything; he just hums. When Tomas takes a break in his search to turn his head, he’s surprised to find an amused look on the man’s face.

“What, are you an exorcist?” He jokes, hastily pushing his glasses back up on his nose with two fingers, a bad habit he adopted a few years back. This is another thing Olivia has lectured him about, _why don’t you just get contact lenses, instead of keeping the same old glasses on your nose?_

“Something like that.” The man replies, and Tomas can’t help but snort. For someone like him; someone who doesn’t believe in anything even remotely close to the supernatural, the joke certainly is funny.

“For real, who are you?”

At those words, the stranger takes a step forward closer to Tomas, who feels like the willing confidante of a man about to divulgue a very important and forbidden secret. However, a secret isn’t really what he gets, he soon understands.

“I can be anything you want me to be, sweetheart.” And _oh_ , Tomas wants to write poems about this voice. He talks like one would talk to a young waitress in a cheap diner on the side of an empty road in Arizona, minus the lewd intentions. Actually, when he speaks to him, Tomas can’t discern anything close to a bad intention.

“For now, just a name will be fine.” He declares, trying not to bite down on his bottom lip, which suddenly became quite itchy with the need to touched, to be licked, to be _worshipped_. Preferably by a man clad in an old leather jacket, and harboring a kind yet broken smile.

“Name’s Marcus.”

“Tomas.”

They stare at each other for a bit until Tomas grabs a book and hands it to Marcus, _Marcus_ , he’s sure it would roll perfectly on his tongue. He certainly can’t wait to try.

“Prayers against the powers of darkness?” The man frowns, visibly not convinced.

“It’s a collection of prayers made by several bishops from the U.S. for the rituals of exorcism and related supplications,” he explains, “Is that what you were looking for?”

“Might be.” Marcus says as he takes the book and quickly goes through the pages. “If it doesn’t work, then I guess I’ll just have to come back here.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad.” Tomas answers before he can stop himself and this time, he swears he must be blushing because Marcus is staring at him with a small, knowing smile.

Without taking the risk to do anything stupid, Tomas leads Marcus back to the counter, a small piece of wood separating them, meant to turn their exchanges into purely professional ones. “Is there anything else you need?”

Marcus’ eyes are on him, and Tomas feels like his body is burning up as he’s being watched.

“I’m good for now. But you might see more of this old mutt very soon.” The man grins, and Tomas can only give him back his smile.  

He certainly hopes so.

 

* * *

 

Tomas’ got a _crush_.

It’s almost embarrassing to admit, because he feels like a teenage boy whose heart skipped a beat for the first time after making eye contact with someone he’s attracted to. The need to deny it was strong at first, because he couldn’t possibly be crushing on a middle-aged man who only comes to his shop to purchase exorcism-related books. But there he is, and sometimes he curses his own heart for starting to race whenever Marcus walks into the place and talks to him with this incredibly smooth voice of his. A rush of adrenaline he certainly doesn’t need, but gets anyway because his body apparently decided that it wanted to react to _this man_ in particular.

During the following weeks, Marcus started showing up from time to time. He buys so many books that Tomas is almost sure this customer is the source of half of his income. The mystery of where he’s getting the money for the books still persists because judging by his clothes, he doesn’t seem to own a lot of cash. He almost always wears the same used clothes, and never seems to take off his precious leather jacket.

His clothes aren’t the only thing that betrays a lack of money, or simply a lack of interest in anything remotely close to fashion. He uses a cheap shampoo – probably coming straight from a motel – which Tomas _accidentally_ smelled one day while standing a little bit too close to Marcus; only because he needed help to grab a book that was closer to the ceiling than it was to the floor, of course. There was absolutely no ulterior motive to his words, when he asked for help. None at all.

Marcus comes more often now. Tomas, observant as he is, noticed how he usually visits him rather very early or after 5p.m, which has led to Tomas keeping a watch close to him, usually between the pages of an open book on his counter, just to check it from time to time; wondering if Marcus is going to show up today.

And when he does, Tomas always greets him with the same warm smile, a shy letter like the ones he used to write, except this one doesn’t feel like a shameful secret; it’s an open invitation, and he hopes Marcus can read it on his silent lips, on the way they curve upward whenever the man comes into his field of view, as if they’re begging him, _hi, please_ _come talk to me, I’ve missed you_.

Sometimes, it seems like Marcus is just here to chat with Tomas. Sometimes, he doesn’t even get a book, or he forgets it on the counter, and Tomas found a game in trying to guess how long it will take for Marcus to remember about the book he was supposed to buy. The longest so far has been one entire day, as Marcus came back the following morning, having apparently only realized about the forgotten book during the middle of the night. In all honesty, Tomas finds it _adorable_.

Can Marcus be considered a friend? It’s a question Tomas started to ask himself, and wants to believe so, because in addition to the lack of money, he also faces a certain lack of friends, though it never bothered him that much. Leaving Mexico meant leaving the friends he had made there, but it also meant being reunited with his sister. And it was the only thing he needed.

Marcus, on the other hand, doesn’t seem like a man with friends or family around him. He paints the picture of a lonely man, someone who would go to a bar more for the conversation than for the drinks, but who would go back home empty-handed.

And Tomas wants to remedy to that. He’s _dying_ to ask him out; every time they’re losing themselves in a tangled mess of words and smiles, he weighs down the pros and cons of asking him to take the conversation to the nearest cafe so they can keep debating about the relevance of religion in the 21st century over a hot cup of tea – he even knows Marcus likes his tea black with one sugar, so why aren’t they doing this already?

Due to the little information Marcus divulged about his life, more often than not about trivial subjects, Tomas is left wondering about this man’s life. Marcus certainly does possess an impressive knowledge of religion, which has led Tomas to believe he might be working in this field, even though he doesn’t look like a priest at all. A theologian, perhaps? It would make sense, as Tomas can discern the faith in Marcus’ words, while the man also doesn’t hesitate to be critical when the need arises. That is something Tomas likes about him, despite not knowing much about his life.

So, with only his thoughts to quench his thirst, it’s no wonder that Tomas started letting his imagination run wild.

He’s fantasized about this man, more often than he would like to admit. He’s imagined grabbing him by the collar of his leather jacket and yanking him forward, crushing their lips together above the old wooden counter.

Daydreams are something he expected; they had been a frequent occurrence during his time with Jessica, but never with such intensity. Without being able to stop it, Tomas is assaulted with thoughts of this man using those wonderful hands of his to learn and memorize every single inch of his body in the most gentle way he can manage, touching him like a book lover would touch the most expensive book that has ever been in their possession.

He has thought about roughness, too, because though he craves the feather-like touch of Marcus’ calloused hands, Tomas is a man who wants to be _marked_ . He wants Marcus to take his glasses off his face before tearing his shirt apart, sending the buttons flying across the room without even giving the slightest damn about it, before laying him down on the counter, _climbing over him and_ –

If he was a religious man, he thinks with humor, he would already be a fallen one.

 

* * *

 

The unforgiving and incessant rain is pouring hard against the windows of his shop in a near-biblical deluge; black and churlish clouds are obscuring the sky and giving the impression that the dark and eerie night has already fallen, despite the fact that’s it’s only the middle of the afternoon. It’s a weather many would associate with sorrow and desolation, yet Tomas feels serene. Whenever he turns around to stare through the window and allows his mind to wander, all he sees is a blending of colors, undefined forms altered by the rain dancing down the glass. It’s something that has always managed to appease him.

The only real downside of it is the lack of clients, but the empty shop allows him to pay more attention to his current book than to anything having to do with business. A new book, started only the night before, and he’s already halfway through it. The deeper into the story he goes, the more he tries to deny the fact that the choice of the rather holy theme was deeply influenced by his numerous religious talks with Marcus; the deeper into the story he goes, the less it seems to matter, because he’s already too captivated by the scenario and the excitement he feels at reaching the end of a chapter filled with unexpected twists is at its apogee.

That is, until the doorbell rings.

Lifting his head up from his book, surprise seems a thousand miles away when he spots a familiar form stepping inside the shop. What strikes him, however, is the complete lack of umbrella in Marcus’ possession, which appears to be a logical explanation for his soaked clothes and hair, as well as the drops of water running down his face. If Tomas wasn’t so fond of him, he would have made a remark about the small pool of water already gathering at the man’s feet.

Like this, he almost looks like a wet cat, and the thought manages to amuse Tomas until he notices how agitated Marcus seems to be; like he’s looking for something. Then, their eyes meet and Tomas swears he can see the tension abruptly leaving Marcus’ body, who seems to hesitate before taking a few steps forward, not standing too close but not standing too far either. Perhaps it’s just the adrenaline leaving his body after an unprompted run under the pouring rain?

“Hello,” Tomas says, giving Marcus his usual grin without expecting any answer. He’s got important news to share with him, anyway.

“I’ve ordered a few books for you, and I’ve just received them,” he whispers, and hopes he’s not coming as too forward. “You should take a look.”

His question stays unanswered, and his grin quickly fades away when he truly takes note of the expression on Marcus’ face. If it wasn’t for the obvious worry obscuring the man’s features, the darkness coming from outside and the dim light of the shop would be enough to make Marcus look as threatening as he ought to be in a dramatic situation.

But he doesn’t look threatening, no, he looks like a wounded animal. With his back slightly curved and the way his soaked clothes stick to his body, he looks smaller and thinner than ever. They stare at each other for a while – not more than a few seconds, but it does feel like an eternity – until Tomas’ eyes begin to drift down, looking for any sign of violence, and is that a wound he can spot on the back of Marcus’ neck, partially hidden by the dark and used leather of his jacket?

“You’re here.” Marcus simply says, finally breaking the silence that was starting to become a weight too heavy to bear for Tomas’ shoulders. There’s _relief_ in the man’s voice, but Tomas is more confused by the words themselves.

“Of course I am,” he answers, giving him a puzzled smile. “It’s my shop, Marcus, where would I be?”

Marcus opens his mouth, a small unrecognizable sound finding its way past his lips, but he obviously lacks any consistent word because he soon closes it, defeated; this prompts Tomas to become more insistent with his questions.

“Are you alright?”

When silence is the only answers gets, Tomas frowns and stands up, walking around his counter with the goal to get closer to the older man. “Did something bad happen? Marcus?” he asks, trying to approach him with the care one would use around a wounded and frightened animal.

The thought that something bad could have happened makes his heart skip a beat. It’s too late to try to deny what this man means to him; he has already crawled under his skin and made himself a home between Tomas’ beating heart and his romantic mind.

However, before Tomas can truly get close to him, Marcus takes a step backward.

“I shouldn’t have come here.”

The worry on Tomas’ face is replaced by incomprehension as Marcus abruptly turns around and makes a beeline for the door, only to be stopped by a hand around his wrist. “Wait!”

His wrist is released as soon as Tomas’ action reaches its intended purpose; Marcus stopped, just a few inches from the door. The man strangely doesn’t move, and Tomas takes advantage of this brief instant of rest to grab an umbrella before handing it to him, who seems to need a few seconds to understand the meaning of it. When he eventually does, he gently pushes the umbrella away with the palm of his hand – it’s an ugly thing, really, one that was forgotten long ago by one of his customers, but Marcus is _soaked_ and Tomas wouldn’t want him to catch a cold.

 _At least someone here seems to care about your health_ , Tomas wants to say, but the words are lost on his tongue when Marcus speaks.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Take it.” Tomas insists, “You need it more than I do.”

“What about you?”

“I have another one in the backroom.” It’s a lie, but he can’t let Marcus know that.

Because if Marcus doesn’t know, it means he _will_ take the umbrella, as if he can’t accept the fact that someone actually cares and doesn’t want him to get sick by running under the pouring rain. When the man reluctantly takes a hold of the umbrella, Tomas is so worried he doesn’t pay attention to the way their fingers brush against each other. All he can do is let out a sigh as he stares up at the man, his brows furrowing.

“Why did you really come?”

Tomas expected the deadly silence that follows, but not the fear in the eyes that are staring at him. For a moment, it seems like Marcus is going to bring his hand up – for what, Tomas doesn’t know – but he brings it down as quickly as it had risen, like a man catching himself as he starts to perform a forbidden action.

“I needed to see you.”

“Why?”

Marcus shakes his head. “You won’t understand.”

“Try me. _Talk to me_ , Marcus.”

He sees the dilemma on the man’s face, and it does nothing but contribute to Tomas’ worry.

Marcus looks away – obviously thinking about his next move – until anxiousness visibly gets the better of him, and he starts running a hand through his damp hair. Being reminded of whatever happened visibly agitates him again.

“It threatened you,” he eventually confesses before taking a deep breath, like he’s already regretting his words; scanning Tomas’ face for any indication that this was a mistake.

“I had to make sure – “ he swallows, “make sure you were okay.”

A tanned hand moves up to grip the back of the man’s neck; a way of reassuring him, of saying, _I’m here, and I’m okay, safe_. Safe from what, he doesn’t know, but what he does know is that the skin of Marcus’ neck feels as soft as he thought it would be, and just a little wet from the rain.

Is it just him or is Marcus leaning into the touch?

But despite the gentleness of his touch, Tomas is scared. More specifically, he’s scared by Marcus’ words and their implication. His touch isn’t only there to reassure Marcus, but also to coax him into opening himself. This is Tomas’ way of saying, _it’s okay, you can talk to me._

Feeling lucky, Tomas decides to try getting additional information. “What threatened me?”

Unfortunately, he’s met with another silence. He sees Marcus’ lips move slightly, as if the words are hidden just behind, but don’t dare fall out of his mouth.

“Marcus?” he calls, before repeating himself. _What threatened me?_

Then, abruptly, Marcus pulls away. With hindsight, Tomas should have expected it. Marcus had looked like a frightened animal and he was certainly acting like one, too. Despite his best attempts at soothing him and trying to create a safe environment for Marcus to talk, in the end, there was nothing Tomas could really do if Marcus decided that his lips were ultimately sealed.

“Tell me, Tomas–“ Marcus asks as he straightens his jacket, the umbrella safe in his other hand. “Do you believe in God?”

The question comes as a surprise, as Tomas doesn’t know how it’s gonna help answer his own.

“Not really, but–“

“Then you won’t understand.” Marcus cuts him off, as if he’s the only judge of Tomas’ comprehension abilities. He’s _not_ , he wants to shoot back but before he can do so, or utter any other word, Marcus is gone.

As a sigh leaves his lips, Tomas looks down at his right hand; the one he used to cup the back of Marcus’ neck.

There’s blood on it.

* * *

 

They don’t talk about the incident.

Upon being asked, a few days after, Marcus simply dismissed it with a sigh, claiming he was drunk and that he had gotten into a bar fight, and it’s the only answer Tomas ever got before Marcus went back to being his usual self, visiting him regularly and buying the books that were kindly ordered for him.

Tomas ends up having no other choice than to believe him, because nothing like this happens after this strange night. Everything goes back to normal, so does Tomas’ routine of pining after a much older man he barely knows.

Indeed, it seems like Marcus found a comfortable spot in Tomas’ daydreams, because he still firmly refuses to leave.

It takes weeks for Tomas to finally gather up the courage to do something about it. He wants to get to know Marcus better, wants to indulge in the numerous fantaisies his brain has come up with in the span of the last few months.

So, with the help of his old-fashioned romantic mind, Tomas comes up with a plan. He waits until the next delivery of the books he ordered specially for Marcus, picks up the one he thinks will interest him the most, opens it to the first page, and grabs a pen. He spends a full hour trying to think about the words he should write, what would sound wrong; what would sound too eager, too _cheesy_ , until eventually feeling like he wasted his time when he settles for something utterly simple.

_Go out on a date with me? - Tomas_

Tomas doesn’t have the biggest experience when it comes to dating, but he’s had a few partners. And yet, he’s never asked anyone out through a _book_ before; but it seems like the perfect way to ask this one particular man out. At least, the rejection wouldn’t feel too painful, he could just pretend it never happened.

Two days later, when Marcus walks into the shop, Tomas greets him with a slightly faster heartbeat than usual. He hopes his visitor doesn’t notice the anxiousness in his voice, and how his eyes follow Marcus as he makes his way to his usual spot, before stopping right in front of the new books Tomas has ordered for him.

He sees Marcus pick up _the_ book and after staring at the hardcover for a few seconds, makes his way to Tomas in order to pay. _This is it_ , he thinks. He’s gonna buy it and later, whenever he leaves, he’ll see the note Tomas left him. There’s no going back now.

Only a handful of words are exchanged this time; Tomas is too scared to really start a conversation, and he ends up only complimenting Marcus’ taste in books.

He doesn’t get any word in return, but a smile that is worth way much more.

 

* * *

 

So, with the knowledge that Marcus holds the future of a socially awkward bookshop owner’s love life between his hands, Tomas waits.

And waits.

Soon, it’s been an entire week since his bold attempt at asking Marcus out, and Tomas gets the confirmation that he’s never really been a patient man.

Marcus doesn’t come back.

Every time he thinks about it – too many times for his liking – Tomas can feel the regret that comes with the sharp thoughts. On some days, he kicks himself for not leaving at least a phone number, despite how much he wanted to hear Marcus give him an answer face to face, like the old-fashioned romantic that he is. _You’ve been reading too many romance novels, brother_ , Olivia would tease him if she knew about Tomas’ peculiar customer and his desire of taking the man out on a date.

On other days, Tomas simply regrets leaving a note. It’s easy to start losing hope, as the days pass and his hope fades into uncertainness, then heartache. Was he too forward? Did he scare Marcus off? He can’t help but think that he did, because it’s been nearly two weeks and as far as Tomas knows, the man hasn’t stepped anywhere close to his bookshop.

 

* * *

 

It happens on a sunny evening, one announcing the arrival of longer and warmer days, of summer sunlight and knee-high golden grass.

Tomas is working in the back of the shop, unwrapping books he just received and sorting them by theme. _No more books about demons_ , he thinks bitterly while opening the last cardboard box, just as he hears the faint ringing sound of the doorbell.

“I’m coming!” he yells from the room, “Just a few seconds!”

To his surprise, it’s not long before he hears the doorbell ring again, and barely a minute later, Tomas is pushed by his curiosity to make his way back to the entrance of the shop.

It’s empty.

There’s no soul except his own, and as Tomas scans the shop for anything that could have been stolen, he notices that there’s one book that wasn’t there before he left for the back room.

On his counter sits a book, one he immediately recognizes as the one Marcus bought nearly two weeks ago. The first thought that crosses his mind is the obvious rejection symbolized by the act; an invitation returned to sender.

Still, he grabs it and before he can open it, Tomas spots very faint grey spots on the fore-edge of the book, something that looks like charcoal.

Upon opening the book at a random page, Tomas finds himself face to face with a _drawing_. It’s a scenery, some random trees and what seems to represent the entrance of a forest. As he flips through the pages, Tomas’ eyes are blessed with many more drawings, from human shapes to animals, anything that seemed to cross Marcus’ mind at that moment; because those drawings are undoubtedly from this man.

He keeps flipping the pages until suddenly, he’s staring at himself. There he is, in all his glory, bearing a happy smile on his face, his glasses hanging on his nose like they always do. Tomas runs a finger over the charcoal; over the carefully drawn stubble and hair. Where other drawings are darker; the result of a pen pressed too harshly against the paper – damaging it – it’s not the case for this portrait. It’s almost like Marcus didn’t want to defile this representation of him by being too rough on the paper.

Every line seems like it’s been drawn with care and with a gentleness Marcus doesn’t seem to possess at first glance. But now that Tomas has spent a significant amount of time with him, he knows that the sharp exterior only hides a gentle soul.

When he snaps out of his thoughts, Tomas doesn’t fail to notice the title of the chapter his face has been drawn on. _A Path to Heaven_.

It’s only a few seconds later that he’s reminded of the note he has left and when he checks it, some words have been added; his heart skips a beat.

_Tomorrow evening, 7pm. I’ll pick you up at the bookshop._

This book, Tomas thinks as he closes it and holds it against his chest with a smile, doesn’t smell like the chemicals they used on the paper, or like vanilla and almond.

It smells like one wants it to smell.

To the owner of a small and cramped bookshop in Chicago, it smells like old leather; like the unmistakable smell of cheap motel shampoo that has gotten under his skin in the span of just a few months. If that’s possible, it smells like the grin Marcus gives him whenever Tomas announces he has ordered new books just for him. It smells like something broken yet holy – something that could make him believe in Heaven’s gates without even uttering a word; through a single look, a single touch.

It smells like Marcus; the scent of love.


End file.
